


2019 Sansan Secret Santa Gift

by naturesinmyeye



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-22 19:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: A gift for allthedances. Original prompt was "zombie apocalypse, fear, safety, angst".  Which is pretty much everything I have never written, so this one was a challenge for me. I fully admit to putting this off till the last minute and basically mashing every recent zombie show/movie I've seen in the last two months together. It's short and to the point, but I think it turned out decent enough.  Cross over if you squint.





	2019 Sansan Secret Santa Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllTheDances](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheDances/gifts).



> A gift for allthedances. Original prompt was "zombie apocalypse, fear, safety, angst". Which is pretty much everything I have never written, so this one was a challenge for me. I fully admit to putting this off till the last minute and basically mashing every recent zombie show/movie I've seen in the last two months together. It's short and to the point, but I think it turned out decent enough. Cross over if you squint.

The trees over Sandor’s head held branches full of gold and scarlet. Each autumn leaf swayed in a gentle breeze, while evening sunlight cast them all aglow. Should have paid more attention to this, he thought. _A_ _nd the stars and_ _flowers and shells,_ _and all_ _the other beautiful shit Sansa was constantly trying to get_ _me_ _to notice._

His fingers twitched against the handle of a pistol. Funny, how the fever hadn’t set in yet. His neck and shoulder burned like hell’s flames where he’d been bit, but the rest of him was surprisingly cool. He felt weak, dizzy and nauseous, but it had been five hours already. He should have started to burn by now. He should have used the pistol by now. But his arms were heavy; so heavy, and the wind whispered to him.

Maybe he could hold off a few more hours and see the night sky one last time.

He couldn’t risk it. Not when it meant coming back as one of the _things_. The dead ones, lumbering around, biting and feeding and _never_ stopping. He couldn’t risk coming back and somehow finding Sansa, only to rip through her and their unborn. The horrible image of himself, decaying and rotted, clawing at Sansa’s womb made Sandor’s stomach clench and he retched onto the forest floor. Black, inky mucous poured from his mouth for what seemed like hours and when it was over Sandor shoved himself back against the trunk of his tree. There was a sticky pool of . . .well, whatever it was, all around him.

_That’s new. Never saw anyone do that before they changed._

Sandor’s hand reached for his pistol. It was time. The sun was setting and there was no use putting it off any longer. _Something_ was wrong with him, and he would keep Sansa from harm, even if that meant his own death. His arm shook with the strain of trying to lift the gun, his once tremendous strength all but gone.

The tears surprised him, as he hiccuped on a sob. He’d never feared death. That was inevitable. No use being scared or worrying about it. It was the regret that had him weeping. Two years hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t told her nearly enough times that he loved her, and he certainly hadn’t tired of hearing the sentiment from her lips. He’d never see their babe. Know if it was a boy or girl. Never hold it, just once.

They had to carry Sansa away, Sandor remembered. They dragged her, kicking and screaming from him and he had told her not to fight, to just let it be and stay safe for the little one.

Sandor took a deep breath, trying to steady his arm.

_I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m so sorry._

And then his entire body seized. It was sudden. No warning at all. Every muscle cramped and shook as Sandor hit the ground. His vision went blurry as he tried desperately to find the pistol amongst the dying grass and crumbling leaves. He felt nothing and the world began to fade away.

_I failed her._

_. . . . . . ._

_Teeth. Slashing. Blood. Pouring. Screams. Echoing. And red. Red on red on red._

Sandor woke with a sharp inhale, then coughed and choked on the dirt coating his tongue.

_Thirst._

Sandor lunged for the water bottle he’d tossed aside . . . yesterday? It was morning now, and there was dew on the ground, but how many days had gone by since he passed out? There were still a few precious drops left in the bottle, and Sandor tilted his head back, whining as the droplets slowly made their way to his eager mouth.

He vomited instantly. More of the black ink. His stomach roared.

_Hunger._

But there was nothing to eat. Nothing at all, beyond twigs and brown grass. Sandor forced himself to his feet, stumbling a few paces. His neck no longer burned and his body felt . . .his body felt . . .nothing? Numb? Drugged? Something in between all of them?

Sandor used the trees as supports. His vision was off. Shapes were sharper but colors were muted.

_Keep moving._

Where was the pistol?

Gods, he was _hungry._

And before he knew what was happening, there was a flash of movement in the grass and he threw himself over top of it, scrabbling to get at whatever it was. The small lump of fur was crushed in an instant between his hands and then it _was in his mouth._ Innards burst and bones crunched between his teeth.

The fucking chipmunk never stood a chance.

Sandor moaned with pleasure, his tremors subsiding and the gnawing feeling in his gut disappearing.

. . . . .

The chipmunk kept him going for a day. Then the shakes returned, and the feeling of a fever coming on. The _hunger_ was back. He got a rabbit the second day and lasted nearly thrity-six hours on that. He never slept. Just kept walking. Hunting for food.

Sandor wasn’t sure what he’d become, but he learned the rules over the coming months.

Meat was all he could eat. No water. No fruit. No bread or wine. Meat was all that kept the horrible, withdraw-like symptoms from overtaking him. Fresh was best. But winter proved hard for even the mostly undead and he learned he could survive off of tinned meat, dead flesh and, at a particularly low point, dog food. They didn’t keep the hunger at bay as efficiently as fresh, but they kept him from becoming a monster.

He avoided people at all costs. When they were near, they smelled both right and wrong, and Sandor wasn’t interested in exploring which one he would choose on an empty belly.

Sandor had always been good at setting snares and was an excellent marksman. He broke into a shop and found a rifle. He got better with a crossbow, pilfered from an abandoned camp, when the bullets ran out. A deer could keep him bloated and satiated for a month.

The dead never bothered him. He could walk right through a heard, plunging his knife into skull after skull and they never broke rank. He screamed in their faces, punched their jaws and pushed them over, and they never fought back. They simply looked at him with milky eyes and kept walking. Kept hunting for food.

Sometimes, in the chaos of one of his tantrums, one would bite, but it never amounted to anything.

They let go as soon as they broke skin and shuffled off. His forearms were a mass of scars.

. . . . . . .

It went on like that for another year. Until spring came once again. And then his endless, roaming circles lead him to asphalt and a weary looking road sign.

_Welcome to Alexandria_

There was an enormous wall in the distance and the sound of people. Lots of people. _Children._ Sandor shivered, not from cold -never from cold- as the wind picked up and he smelled something he’d thought lost forever.

_Sansa._

Sandor felt something wet on his face and touched his cheek. His finger tips were smeared with black.

. . . . . . .

“Cal!” Susan called over the walkie. “CAL!! Get over here! Fucking now!”

Cal scrambled down from his post, a good fifty yards away, running over to Susan’s while she continued to curse on the walkie, and he took the ladder’s rungs two at a time. He expected a horde and instead found Susan standing and staring. She trembled while chewing at her lip.

“Jesus, Suz!” he shouted, out of breath. She didn’t even have her rifle up. “What the hell?”

“Something’s wrong,” she said, finally facing Cal and pointing away. “Something’s wrong with that one.”

Cal leaned over the edge of the wall and at first had no clue as to what she was talking about. There were maybe twenty rotters up against the metal sheets that made the wall. Nothing to get fussy over. They’d take them out later, quietly, with arrows. No sense in making noise over such a small cluster.

But then Cal heard.

The was a steady thump, pause, thump, pause, thump. One of the fucking rotters was _knocking_. It was a mess. Filthy, with skin so pale the veins underneath made it look a sick blue-black. Used to be a man. Looked fresh though. Nothing was falling off yet.

“Look at it’s eyes,” Susan whispered.

Cal squinted and saw what she meant. It had silver eyes. And they were staring back up at the two of them. Like it _knew_ them. Or could know them. Like it knew they were people and not food.

“What do we do with it?” Susan said, her voice still low, just in case the rotter could hear them.

Then they watched, dumbfounded, as the rotter pulled out a knife and calmly dispatched the group around it. Not one of the undead turned on it. They simply fell and didn’t get back up.

The _thing_ stared at them again.

Cal did the only reasonable thing he could think of, given the circumstances. “You got a name?” he called, and Susan smacked his arm.

The man, for lack of a better word, opened his mouth and worked his jaw a few times.

“Sss,” it hissed, then coughed and choked, regained itself and tried again. “St-staaark. . . .lookin’. Sansa.”

“Fuck me,” Cal said, taking Susan’s wrist. “Go get Lucas.”

. . . . . . .

Six burly looking men, eventually came for him. They had guns, knives, a couple of bats, netting, and a fucking cattle prod to boot. Sandor simply sat on the ground and let them bind and muzzle him. He’d made sure to gorge himself on snake and potted meat before he came. He wasn’t stupid, just . . . fuzzy sometimes.

The men lead him around the fencing, to a back entrance and down several side-streets. Sandor marveled at the neat, painted houses and the sound of children laughing. The urge to break free and find the one that belonged to him was overwhelming, but Sandor held strong. Starting a panic wasn’t going to get him anything but a bullet to the head, and he’d come too far to lose it all now.

He ended up in a cell with metal bars in some sort of make shift library. That’s where he met Lucas, and that’s where Sandor learned what hell truly was.

. . . . . . .

Lucas swore the eight that knew about Sandor to total secrecy. There was no point in scaring “the public” until they knew exactly what they had, he told them.

They trussed Sandor up in a straight jacket, like a pig going to market, and chained him to the wall. The muzzle never came off. Lucas took sample after sample from him. Blood, shit, piss, hair, _skin_. By day three Sandor shook and begged for food. Lucas ignored him and Sandor lost count of the days.

His world was pain. Endless time filled with a madness brought on by starvation. Sandor snarled and gnashed his teeth. He howled and sobbed and drooled and no one listened. At the start of it, he could answer simple questions directed his way, as his mind and mouth learned to speak once more. After a week, he only knew one word, but she didn’t come.

. . . . . . . .

_Pain, hunger . . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger . . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger . . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger . . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger . . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. Pain, hunger. . .Sansa. Pain, hunger. . . Sansa. . . . . . . ._

. . . . . . . .

“Sandor?”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes wildly scanning his surroundings, searching for the source of the sound. Something about it was familiar. There was a woman on the other side of the bars. Tall, red hair, blue eyes.

_Sansa?_

The woman started to cry. “Oh god,” she said, “what have they done to you?”

Sandor cried as well. “Hungry,” he sobbed, unable to recall anything but the want for food. For blood and meat and marrow.

“The pantry’s closed,” Sansa stammered. “I-I can get bread maybe. Some dried fruit.”

“MEAT!!” he roared back at her, making Sansa jumped.

She held her palms out and open, backing away from the bars. “Ok, ok. . . I’ll find something! I’ll come back. I will.” She swiped at her eyes and scurried away. Sandor wailed in agony.

. . . . . . .

She came back, just as promised, though Sandor had no way of knowing if it were minutes or days that she was gone. He was on his knees, panting and rocking to try and stop the pain inside when the scent came.

Sandor surged up and forward, crashing into metal, straining to get just one bite of the pork she’d brought.

“I broke into the smokehouse,” Sansa explained, tearing shreds off of the hunk of meat in her hands and passing them through the slits in his muzzle. Sandor concentrated on the bits of meat she fed him, trying with all he had not to nip at her fingertips, hating himself for even thinking such dark thoughts, as his senses returned. The fog of hunger lifted and the crazed animal of want within him withdrew it’s claws. He wept with relief.

“What are you?” Sansa whispered, taking note of his black tears as she continued to feed him.

“Don’t know,” he answered honestly. His voice was even rougher than before, when it was just the two of them and open road. “The baby?”

Sansa’s eyes filled with water. “A girl. Healthy. She’s got your hair.”

Sandor continued to eat until there was nothing left and then he let out a long, satisfied sigh.

“Better?” Sansa asked and he nodded. “Is it always like that?”

He shook his head this time in answer. “Never let it get that bad. Your doctor’s crazy.”

“Lucas?” Sansa replied, humming for a moment. “Yeah, crazy sums it up.” She suddenly reached up to brush the hair off his brow and out of his eyes. Sandor started, backing away. “You’re cold,” she stated.

“Wouldn’t know,” he said. “Hard to feel now.”

“Then why come?’ Sansa asked. “Why now?”

“Couldn’t find you til now. Forgot things sometimes,” he answered simply. “Said I’d keep you safe. Take you home?”

“North? To Winterfell?”

“You still want to? I can get you there. Dead ones don’t hurt me now.”

Sansa took a breath, gathering her thoughts. “I can’t,” she finally said. “Not now. I can’t leave Sandra and she’s too young for the trip. Besides, there may be nothing left.”

What ever may have been left of Sandor’s heart sank. “We could go. Anywhere,” he tried, voice quiet and unsure.

“She’s too young,” Sansa said sternly. “It’s safer here for her.”

Sandor frowned and then an idea came to him. “Let me go?”

“Where?”

“North. See what’s there.”

“It would take months, Sandor, maybe a year-”

“Quicker for me. No sleep. I’ll come back for you? When she’s older?”

Sansa’s face softened. “It really is you, isn’t it?” she said, reaching between the bars again and letting her hand fall just short of any actual contact, exposing her wrist to him. The muzzle would have kept him from biting her, but with a full belly, harming anyone, least of all her, was a dim possibility. Sandor leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, and though his skin felt nothing but pressure, some pulse inside him felt bliss.

“Aye,” he growled, not unkindly. Sansa smiled and withdrew her hand.

“Are there keys?” she asked, starting to rummage through tool boxes and med kits.

“Desk. Third drawer,” he instructed. After a few moments he heard the jingle of keys.

“Bingo!” Sansa said brightly, shaking the keyring in triumph. “Let’s get you out of here!”

**Author's Note:**

> I figured Sandor would be stubborn and loyal enough to over come anything for Sansa. And something about Sandor's short/to the point/choppy way of speech in the show made me think it could pass as somewhat with it zombie. He's much better around Sansa. He needs strong links to his human side to keep that in the forefront.


End file.
